


i know it sounds awkward, i'm filthy as charged, you're a sweet talker

by uaevuon



Series: Legends Never Die (the omegaverse geass AU) [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Immortality, LLYBB, M/M, magical contract a la code geass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-07-16 11:31:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16085252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uaevuon/pseuds/uaevuon
Summary: A sudden commotion by the door made Viktor tighten his arms around Yuuri. There was shouting; a mix of angry Russian that was too fast for Yuuri’s limited knowledge to decipher, combined with the triplets who were perfectly understandable one-by-one but completely cacophonous layered on top of one another. It wasn’t until Yuuri turned, taking Viktor with him, and saw a terrifyingly familiar face moving quickly closer that the girls shouted, all together, “Yuri Plisetsky!”As if he needed an announcement.





	i know it sounds awkward, i'm filthy as charged, you're a sweet talker

**Author's Note:**

> cw for flippant discussion of death by immortals
> 
> this work is part of a series, and will not make any sense without having read the previous parts.

Yuuri’s abrupt return to intense exercise tested even his legendary stamina, which had kept him skating into the small hours when his rinkmates in New Detroit had been fast asleep. Viktor woke early, spent those hours at Ice Castle before public skating, supposedly choreographing a short program for Yuuri, and when he returned to Yu-topia just before noon, he would bang on the frame of Yuuri’s door, yelling at him to get up and greet the day, then announce Yuuri’s schedule for the day, which muscles he’d be putting to the test, which heat-softened areas of his body he’d toughen with the strain. 

“Not that you aren’t absolutely delicious as you are,” Viktor would babble as Yuuri showered, his eyes raking up and down Yuuri’s body without a care in the world for onsen etiquette, or privacy, or Yuuri’s comfort level, “but we want you consistently landing your quads, not just chancing wobbly landings on your post-heat adrenaline.” Ah. So Viktor had noticed after all. Well, Yuuri supposed the strength of his scent broadcasted to the world exactly the timing of his cycle at any time of year. “I want to see those thighs of yours thick with hard muscle that could crush my head.” 

Okay, well, that was a very vivid mental image that got Yuuri on the oft-traveled track of Viktor loudly and enthusiastically going down on him, but sure, muscle. Lots and lots of muscle. 

As Yuuri towelled himself off, Viktor crouched down and caught one of Yuuri’s feet in his hands. He lifted it, inspecting the calluses, his thumb digging into the scent gland at Yuuri’s ankle in a way that was far too distracting. “How often do you replace your skates?” Viktor asked. His accent was thick on otherwise impeccable Japanese; the words landed heavily on Yuuri’s ears, intoxicating. 

Yuuri quickly pulled his towel in front of himself, trying to hide his crotch from view. Not that Viktor hadn’t already seen all of him, and omegas were generally quite touchy and familiar with one another anyway, but it was a little much to have Viktor’s face _right there_. “Um. Every two years?” 

Viktor scowled. “Every _year_ , Yuuri,” he demanded, shaking his head. “I’ll have you a new pair by the time you’re back on ice.” 

He dropped Yuuri’s foot and stood; Yuuri averted his eyes, as he usually did when Viktor left his birthday suit on full display. Yuuri hadn’t looked any lower than his ridiculously pink and pert nipples, except for that one time he got an eyeful of Viktor’s muscular behind as he exited the onsen. It was just — propriety! He didn’t mind Viktor being naked (so, so naked) or even being naked in front of him specifically, but it wasn’t right to just ogle people. 

Though, he couldn’t quite bring himself to tell Viktor to stop. Part of him, the same part that demanded his heat partners not take their eyes off him even for a second, preened at the idea that Viktor wanted to look at him, _all_ of him. 

“Really, your sponsors should be offering a pair every year,” Viktor said. 

Yuuri shook his head to clear it of all fantastical lust thoughts. “Kosugi is a small brand,” Yuuri defended. “They can’t offer that often. And it’s not like I’m good enough to get sponsored for blades.” 

Viktor rounded on him, using all seven of the centimeters his height had on Yuuri’s to not-quite-tower over him. “You _are_ good enough,” he insisted, then backed off. “Don’t you forget it. And when I’m done with you, you’ll have more free pairs of skates than you know what to do with.”

Yuuri doubted that; still, he said his “Yes, Coach” that was quickly becoming the customary, subtly sarcastic response whenever Viktor said something he didn’t agree with. 

“What quads do you feel confident in?” Viktor asked while Yuuri continued to dry himself off.

Yuuri frowned. There weren’t many. “I can do the toe loop, most of the time. The Salchow is… well, I don’t have a good record with it in competition.” 

“The flip and Lutz?” 

Yuuri shrugged. “I’d never really tried a quad Lutz until, well, what you saw. And I don’t have enough success on the flip to say I’m confident in it.” 

“That explains why they were so sloppy. For now we’ll stick with the toe loop, and you’ll work on your Salchow. I can’t choreograph something you don’t know how to do.” 

“You think I can beat your records with an unreliable Salchow and a shaky toe loop?” Yuuri didn’t even expect he could medal at the Grand Prix Final with that, not against the quad-happy and confident Giacometti and Leroy; Lee with his quad loop; Altin with his powerful Salchow and consistently clean programs. Not to mention some of the junior skaters, about to graduate into senior competition. Maybe, if Yuuri skated perfectly, and some of the others messed up badly, he’d manage bronze. 

“We’ll just have to see.” Viktor turned and swept out of the shower room, towel wrapped low around his waist, long hair dripping down his back, the drops catching in the dimples above his butt… Yuuri looked away, embarrassed, though no-one had seen him eyeing Viktor. 

_No one could possibly blame me_ , Yuuri thought. Viktor looked like… not even a snack. He was a whole meal. Four courses, plus dessert. And a fancy aged wine to pair. Flavored butter. Tiny forks. 

Yuuri stepped onto the scale in the privacy of his own bedroom. Nearly a month had passed since Viktor had arrived out of the blue, and Yuuri felt his heart leap in his chest; he’d finally gotten down to where he’d weighed in at the previous Grand Prix. He threw on his clothes and, hair still wet, sprinted to the dining room, where he expected to see Viktor chatting with the locals, mostly about food. Viktor, it seemed, was something of a foodie; even working around Yuuri’s restrictive athletic diet, he managed through the suggestions of Yuuri’s parents and the owners of other restaurants in Hasetsu to give Yuuri as much variety in his meals as possible. It was far better than the rabbit food Yuuri had subjected himself to for years. 

Sure enough, Viktor, in the green robes he’d taken to wearing constantly inside the inn, was combing through his wet hair, surrounded by people who seemed compelled to spill their families’ long-held secret recipes, charmed by this beautiful omega who so closely resembled the hero of their little town’s pride and joy. 

“Viktor!” Yuuri called across the room. 

Viktor looked up from his conversation; it seemed every face in the room turned with him. 

“I’m ready to get back on the ice.”

Viktor grinned. “Took you long enough.” He stood, all skater’s grace. “I’ll get dressed. We’ll go talk to Yuu-chan about rink time.” 

Yuuri wondered when Viktor had gotten permission to use Yuuko’s nickname, but he supposed that was just part of his ridiculous charm. He followed Viktor down the hall, and stopped outside of his room. 

“Come in,” Viktor said. “We’re both omegas.” 

Yuuri followed him in, though he was ready to bolt at any moment. Viktor undressed without a care in the world, seeming not to notice Yuuri’s tomato-red face and wide eyes trained carefully on the wall and nowhere near Viktor. 

Yuuri took in the room once Viktor had pants on. It was simple, traditional, and rather bare. For some reason Yuuri expected Viktor to fill the room with his belongings, but it seemed all Viktor had brought with him were three trunks that sat stacked in the corner. His clothes hung in an alcove, a few books filled the shelves, and a strange marble bust wearing Viktor’s gold medal was the only personal touch Yuuri could see. He looked out to the porch, with its door half-open to let in the early summer breeze; Viktor’s futon and blanket were draped over the railing, airing out. As Yuuri stared, Viktor went out, now fully dressed, and brought the bedding in, as if he was used to living in traditional ryokan. 

“You don’t have much,” Yuuri observed. 

“Surprised?” Viktor asked. “I know. I used to be a big celebrity, surrounded by luxury…” He shook his head. “When you’re supposed to be dead, people start to notice if your rent checks keep coming in. I sold everything long ago, impersonating a cousin. It was much easier to falsify one’s identity back then.” He went to the clothing rack, gently touched the fabric of a smoky gray suit. “I still have a taste for bespoke,” he said, with some humor. “But it’s easier to not have too much. When someone gets suspicious, or I break a contract, I can just pack up and go.” 

“How do you travel?”

Viktor shrugged. “It’s harder to get false papers now, but not impossible. Legally, I’m Nicholas Wynne, twenty-seven years old, born in a rural town in the United Kingdom and raised in Paris. My current passport is French.” He pushed the futon into its cabinet, then swept out of the room. 

Yuuri followed him, down the hall, out the front door; he matched Viktor’s casual pace through the streets of Hasetsu. 

“What about you?” Viktor asked, continuing their conversation. “You won’t let me into your room. Are you some sort of pack rat?”

It was true; Yuuri shut him out, too flustered by Viktor’s easily-misconstrued requests that they sleep together. He’d taken down all the posters of Viktor, just in case, but Viktor hadn’t disobeyed Yuuri’s requests that he stay out, as far as Yuuri knew. 

“Not at all. I guess I don’t have much either,” Yuuri said. “More than you, maybe. But I’ve been in college, and competing, so I was never in one place for too long. And I got rid of most things that I wasn’t taking with me before I left. I’ve never really needed a lot of stuff in the first place.” He didn’t mention that he’d spent all his allowances as a kid rounding up vintage Viktor Nikiforov merchandise, and being that there wasn’t much going around anymore, he hadn’t had much to collect. 

“If that’s the case, why can’t I come in your room?”

Yuuri turned his face away. “That’s…”

Viktor laughed. “Don’t worry, Toshiya already told me all about your posters.”

Yuuri groaned; he stopped walking so he could cover his face with his hands. 

Viktor only laughed harder. “I think it’s sweet!”

“You don’t even like being a legend.”

“That doesn’t mean I’ll begrudge a child their hero. Or an adult, for that matter. Everyone deserves to have someone to look up to. There aren’t so many omegas in sports, after all; we should stick together.” Viktor put his arm around Yuuri’s shoulders, guiding him forward even as Yuuri refused to show his face. “How many others are there in figure skating these days? I only know of Giacometti.”

“I’m not sure,” Yuuri mumbled. He moved his hands, but still looked down at his shuffling feet. “I think most are betas, but I don’t get close enough to many people to know. I’ve heard there’s an ice dance pair that’s two omegas, but I don’t know them.” 

“What about your friend? Chulanont.”

“Oh, Phichit is a beta. Well, a gamma, I guess.”

Viktor was silent for long enough that Yuuri looked up at him. “Gamma?” Viktor repeated. 

“Um, I guess it’s a newer idea. For people who are on the line between designations. Phichit has a little bit of omega hormones; he once got a physical done in Switzerland during a training camp, and they called him an omega. It’s more common for alphas and omegas who have low hormones.”

“Huh. That’s much kinder. They just called us weak when I was alive.”

Yuuri winced; it was always awkward to hear Viktor put it that way, as if he wasn’t living anymore. He knew it was sort of a joke to Viktor, because as far as most people knew, he wasn’t. But it stung, when Yuuri could see him, smell him; when Yuuri was frequently subjected to his closeness. Then, belatedly, what Viktor had said registered; “You too?”

Viktor nodded. “You can probably tell from my scent. I’m not as omega as you are.”

Few people were “as omega” as Yuuri, by that logic; he was off the charts by Japanese standards. “You’re still an omega,” Yuuri said. “I mean, if you want to be.”

“I do. I like being an omega. Especially if it at all contributed to the reasons you’re interested in me.”

Yuuri’s eyes widened; did Viktor have to say it that way, like he knew all about Yuuri’s hero-crush on The Late Legend Viktor Nikiforov and possibly the actual-crush he was starting to develop on the Viktor who stood by his side? This Viktor was so different from anything Yuuri could have expected, but not in a bad way, not at all. He was worldly and experienced, driven but also lighthearted, at times, and he was so, so beautiful… 

It wasn’t anything serious, though. Yuuri knew that. It was just because this was Viktor, the person who Yuuri had formed so much of his life around. The focus of his obsession. It would fade, of course. 

He heard Viktor laugh, probably at something in Yuuri’s expression. Yuuri ignored it as best as he could. He detached himself from Viktor’s half-embrace at the foot of the stairs that led to Ice Castle, and jogged up them as he usually did. Viktor took his time climbing them, hands in his pockets, his now dry hair whipping about his face, a couple small braids twisted into the right side and draped behind his ear. When Yuuri reached the top, he watched Viktor’s ascent, seeing every so often a glimpse of the faded, albatross-shaped scar across Viktor’s forehead, evidence of what Viktor referred to as his “code” — his ability to form the magical contract he explained to Yuuri, and to come back from the dead indefinitely. He had said that, should Yuuri take the contract, the same symbol would appear in Yuuri’s eye every time he used his ability. 

Yuuri wondered at the scar. How would the skin feel? Was it rough and raised, like a callus? Or smooth, like a burn? Would it be cool to the touch? He hadn’t allowed himself to get close enough to find out, but still, he wondered. 

“Penny for your thoughts?” Viktor asked when he reached the top of the steps. When Yuuri remained silent, Viktor fished out a one yen coin from his wallet and held it up. “The exchange rate is still about one hundred yen to one American dollar, right?”

Yuuri couldn’t help the little snort that escaped him. He flicked his hand at Viktor’s wrist and turned away from Viktor’s smirk. “Dork.” Sometimes, only outdated American slang was right to describe Viktor. 

Yuuri entered Ice Castle first; he waved at Yuuko, who was checking some of the rental skates that had just been returned from the day’s first round of public skating. 

“Yuu-chan,” Yuuri greeted. 

“Is it time?” she shouted, abandoning the skates to vault over the counter and begin excitedly jumping in place. Really, her energy was scary, sometimes. “Are you getting back on the ice?”

Yuuri nodded. Behind him, Viktor said, “We’d like to start booking the ice in the evenings.”

Yuuko waved her hands. “Oh, Yuuri doesn’t need to book. I’ve already talked to the owner; the agreement from when we were in high school still stands. You can use it whenever there’s nothing on the schedule.” 

“That’s… no, I can’t accept that,” Yuuri said, demurring; though he was quietly pleased, he didn’t feel he deserved it. And it must be such a loss to the owners.

“It’s nothing, really! You’re the reason this place is still standing, after all. Ever since you made it to the Grand Prix, public skates have been packed.” Yuuko smiled sweetly, proudly. “We always knew you’d be great. Everyone did.”

“I-I can’t… thank you.” Yuuri felt a bit choked up. He didn’t feel like the support was earned, but he was still moved by it. 

“You can start tonight, if you’d like. The second public skate finishes at six, we’ll have the ice cleared by six-thirty.” 

Yuuri was about to say no, they could wait until the next day, but Viktor came up behind him, wrapped his arms around Yuuri, and said, “That would be wonderful. Thank you.” 

Yuuko paused shock-still for a moment, then turned red, her hands coming up to cover her face. She made some sort of very un-alpha-like, high-pitched noise, muffled by her hands; she stepped forward and clasped Yuuri’s hands, whispering to him, “You are so lucky.”

“What?” Yuuri asked. 

“I should have known you’d make the impossible, possible.” 

“What do you mean?” Yuuri asked, but Yuuko said nothing more, just smiling at him, looking ridiculously proud. Yuuri started to get creeped out by this after a while, and he eased his hands out of Yuuko’s grip. “Well, um, we should go? Get ready? For our first practice. Right, Viktor?” 

A sudden commotion by the door made Viktor tighten his arms around Yuuri. There was shouting; a mix of angry Russian that was too fast for Yuuri’s limited knowledge to decipher, combined with the triplets who were perfectly understandable one-by-one but completely cacophonous layered on top of one another. It wasn’t until Yuuri turned, taking Viktor with him, and saw a terrifyingly familiar face moving quickly closer that the girls shouted, all together, “ _Yuri Plisetsky!”_

As if he needed an announcement. 

Yuuko gathered the triplets and, with a wide-eyed stare at the newest, loudest addition to Ice Castle’s lobby, herded them into the hallway, away from the yelling. 

More shouting from Plisetsky, now right in Yuuri’s face; Yuuri caught “promise” and “loser” and “Grand Prix” and a handful of obscenities. It sounded a lot like the teen’s impassioned, enraged speech to him in the bathroom at Sochi, but now in a language he could barely comprehend. He was confused, completely so, but then he noticed the very tip of an angry scar peeking out from behind the hair that covered much of Yuri’s face. From this he extrapolated, and when Yuri paused for breath, Yuuri responded: “If you’re hoping to make a contract with me, you’re too late. Viktor asked first.” 

Yuri Plisetsky got, if possible, even angrier, and shouted at him in English: “This isn’t about you, pig!” 

Yuuri flinched; Yuri couldn’t know, but he had plenty of unpleasant memories attached to that nickname. 

“Viktor made a promise to me, and I’m here to see it through.” 

“I told you,” Viktor said, “I don’t remember making any promise. Are you really going to hold me to a promise I know nothing about?”

“Yes,” Yuri said. “You promised me you would choreograph a program for me if I won the Junior Grand Prix without any quads. Well, it took me over a hundred years, but I did it. I expect you to follow through. You can say goodbye to this loser and come back to Russia with me.”

Viktor’s tone soured. “I haven’t been to Russia in seventy years and I don’t intend to go back now. I’ll choreograph for you here, and you can take it back to your coach. Who is it you have now, Feltsman? How old is he now? I swear he was already a teen when his father coached me.”

Yuri Plisetsky’s Yakov Feltsman was the great-grandson of Viktor’s Yakov Feltsman, but Yuuri decided it would be best to stay quiet for now. While Viktor and Yuuri switched back to speaking rapidly in Russian, with Yuuri oblivious in the middle, he thought of what he knew of Yuri Plisetsky. 

Short, young, angry… liked cats? Yuuri was pretty sure he could already do a quad Salchow, which was a jump that had always eluded Yuuri. He’d kept it out of competition, supposedly at his coach’s insistence. 

Yuri Plisetsky also happened to come from a long line of Yuri Plisetskys, all of whom looked identical and experienced a short but mildly successful stint in junior figure skating competition before suddenly retiring, disappearing to god-knows-where, and, ostensibly, settled down with a kinder and equally blond Russian to pop out another, better Yuri Plisetsky. 

Huh. Yuuri felt he really should have noticed this earlier. Were there more of them? Come to think of it, there were a few skaters over the last century who looked eerily similar. 

Yuuri’s musings were interrupted by Viktor insisting, with no room for disagreement, “That’s enough. I’ll choreograph for you, but I’ll do it here, and then you will leave. I’m not interested in discussing this further.” 

“Fine,” Yuri spat. He scuffed his shoe against the floor, kicking childishly, before he turned on his heel and headed out, dragging a leopard-print suitcase behind him. “Well?” he called behind him. “Are you going to show me this hotel or not?” 

“It’s not a hotel,” Viktor murmured, but didn’t seem to care enough to put real effort into correcting Yuri. “I apologize; he’s really taken the whole ‘never grow older’ thing seriously.” 

“How many of you are there?” Yuuri gasped out, still shocked by all this. 

“Mm… hundreds? Maybe a couple thousand. I’m not sure. I try to keep to myself, but it’s hard to avoid each other once we take the Code. We’re all connected… unfortunately,” he said bitterly, staring after Yuri. 

“Like a bond?” Yuuri asked, referring to the empathic connection between mates. 

“Not at all. More like a radio playing static,” Viktor said cryptically. He disentangled himself from Yuuri. “We should follow him. He’s so old he’d walk off a cliff without noticing, and not care who saw him go _splat_ at the bottom.” 

Yuuri cringed at the mental image and led Viktor out. 

\---

Yuri Plisetsky was, in a word, a monster.

His skating was harsh, clean, perfect. He added flourishes and Tanos, extra steps, combinations where there were none, each one calculated to boost his score in both the technical and presentation. If he fell, he never stayed down for more than a beat in his music, as if he hadn’t felt the pain of impact at all. All this, Yuuri knew from his most recent season in Juniors. 

Immortality had taken what may have once been a normal, if irate, adolescent and turned him to an extreme. Yuri expressed anger, annoyance, and revulsion in spades, but little of any other emotion. He took to a nickname offered by Yuuri’s sister with abject rage. He rejected baths, food, and lodging, proclaiming them all insufficient. Then, refusing to spend a moment less with Viktor’s guidance than Yuuri had, he demanded all three at once. 

He had no scent to suggest any dynamic, which proved his extreme age. There wasn’t a person alive without a secondary gender, hadn’t been for millennia. Still, he insisted he was fifteen years old, and acted as such. The guest room he’d been provided was a mess; the futon left in a haphazard heap in the corner each morning, his clothes strewn about, dirty plates and cups piled amongst empty takeout containers and shopping bags. He left his golden hair in the shower drains, dipped his towels in the onsen, and screeched at the very concept of the bidet. 

Yuuri looked at him and, feeling his omega instincts grow, saw a lonely, scared child trying to be more than his circumstances allowed. 

Of course, that didn’t excuse the way he treated Viktor. Sure, he was rude to Yuuri, and not especially kind to anyone else. But the way he shouted, derided, and outright insulted Viktor made Yuuri want to toss him in the middle of a pond full of hungry crocodiles and test out the limits of his regenerative ability. 

Which, Yuuri realized, was a horrible thing to wish upon anyone, especially a supposed fifteen-year-old. 

Viktor, in turn, had no patience for Yuri. He laughed at Yuri’s anger, dismissed his protests. He dragged Yuri along to Yuuri’s first practice that evening and drilled him just as hard as Yuuri, ignoring the vast difference between them in stamina. 

This was how Yuuri learned that the only time Yuri didn’t complain was when he was in pain. 

Pain meant nothing to someone like Yuri. It wouldn’t kill him, certainly not permanently, so it could and would be ignored. But it took effort to do so, and energy that would otherwise have been wasted on yelling. 

A silent Yuri was the most monstrous of them all, because it was a Yuri that rejected his most basic instincts. 

When Viktor revealed the music for which he had choreographed each of their programs, Yuri was openly critical. Two arrangements hand-picked out of a collection of six, representing different styles of love, formed the basis of their programs, which seemed to be at war with one another. 

The first was a playful piano, an acoustic guitar, synthesizers, upbeat but in minor key, and some poppy lyrics in French. It sounded like the sort of music that was in style when Viktor was still competing, old and almost sarcastic in its extreme, worshipful devotion. Yuuri liked it; he listened to a bit of modern music that retained that sort of classical sound. Viktor described it as being about selfless love, pure to a shocking degree, free of desire or expectation, which he referred to as _Agapé_. Yuuri thought it a strange choice, as the _Urie_ genre was usually more demanding and passionate, if not outright derisive of love in its entirety, but Yuuri enjoyed it anyway. He could see himself skating to this; it wasn’t his preferred instrumental movie scores, nor the traditional operatic ballads, but it suited him. 

The second, called _Eros_ , was more intense, bass-boosted and almost all synthesized, with a heavy beat and minimal vocals. It was approximately what Yuuri might expect to hear at a particularly excellent and overpriced bar, the kind with colored wristbands to describe each guest’s sexual preference and availability; the last song Yuuri might remember, one shot away from an inevitable alcohol-induced blackout. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy the music, he certainly did, but it was just more natural to hear it in a place of debauchery and hedonism and… rentable private back rooms. Which matched what Viktor had to say of it - representing sexual love, all-encompassing, filling, insatiable. 

“I want to skate to this one!” Yuri shouted. 

Yuuri looked him over, took in the various items of retro-fashionably torn clothing he wore that had prints of feline apex predators all over them, and remembered the garishly studded leather jacket he’d worn when he came barreling into the rink. The body of a fifteen-year-old barely containing the rage of ten of the same Yuri Plisetsky. Yeah, of course he would want to skate to this song, sexual connotations be damned. 

“Too bad,” Viktor said, stopping the music. “ _Agapé_ will be yours, Yuri; Yuuri gets _Eros_.”

Yuuri felt the heat creeping up to his face. How was he supposed to skate to that? He could barely dance to electro-hump, and even then only with a pole and at least six, preferably ten or more drinks in him. Which, for the record, was not something Yuuri did often. 

“I’ll show you your programs. You both have a week to practice them with me; then, you --” he pointed at Yuri “--will go back home and show this generation’s most famous coach what you’ve learned. And you--” he pointed at Yuuri “--will continue on as my student.”

“What? All I get is a week?!” Yuri protested, but Viktor silenced him with just a look. 

“All you asked for is choreography. I’m not going to waste my time playing your games; your coach is better suited to you than I am. Now watch me, and pay attention.”

That week turned out to be one of the most grueling training sprints Yuuri had experienced in his life. 

Viktor’s choreography was complicated and physically demanding, equally so for both his and Yuri’s programs. Yuuri’s jumps were backloaded, taking advantage of his stamina to snatch a few extra technical points, and each one had a difficult entry, pushing for added grade of execution. Yuuri was known for his excellent step sequences, but the ones in _Eros_ were something else. When he wasn’t on the ice, he was in Minako’s studio, taking advantage of her exacting criticisms to improve his form, wherever she found him lacking, and he felt it too. 

Worse yet were the psychological demands Viktor placed on each of them, to fully understand and embody the style of love that characterized each of their programs. Yuuri could tell his temporary rinkmate was struggling to understand selfless, unconditional love, but Yuuri could barely spare him a thought; he had to focus on his own program, and how he could possibly express sexual love on the ice. 

Yuuri was no stranger to sex. The demands of his heats had made sure of that. But it wasn’t something he talked about, or acknowledged in any way outside of what was necessary to satisfy his needs. He wasn’t comfortable allowing others into his private life that deeply, and according to Phichit he was known at their college for pushing people away, breaking hearts, and ignoring any form of courting as much as he was known for being the most demanding fuck any of his one-heat-stands would ever have in their lives. He rejected every offer he got, unless he was drunk or in need of a heat partner (and Phichit was usually the one to turn away his drunken yeses before they got too close, if the hockey team hadn’t gotten to them first.)

(The hockey team was very nice. Consisting of fourteen alphas, five betas, and one reproductively inert delta, they followed Yuuri around like puppies after their master, cheered for him at competitions, defended his honor, baked him low-carb pies, and were very understanding of Yuuri’s complete and utter lack of attraction to any of them. They were also devastated to the point of tears, but still endlessly supportive, when Yuuri announced he would be returning to Japan.)

Yuuri didn’t know how to seduce anyone. His scent usually did all the seducing for him; if he needed a partner, all he really had to do was let off the scent-masking soap for a day or two and say yes to the first omega who asked. Otherwise, he was generally closed-off, romantically and sexually. 

The point was, Yuuri wasn’t one to kiss and tell. He also wasn’t one to kiss and dance about it, especially not on the ice. But that was what Viktor asked of him — no, what Viktor demanded of him. Viktor expected him to decide what _Eros_ meant to him, and Yuuri was pretty sure that the correct answer was neither “necessary biological function” nor “adult novelty items”. All that was really left was “Viktor Fucking Nikiforov”, and that was just too embarrassing to even consider saying aloud, much less put into his skating. 

In the end, it was the memory of that devoted pack of burly hockey players that gave Yuuri the idea he needed. 

Viktor wanted Yuuri to seduce _him_ , after all. He had to stop thinking as himself, as an omega who wanted omegas. He had to think like someone Viktor would be interested in. He had to think like an alpha. 

He ended up at Minako’s studio in the middle of the night, desperately begging her to drill him in how to dance Like An Alpha, whatever it was that meant to her. It turned out, Minako didn’t think much of her secondary gender, but she saw how serious Yuuri was about it and, with a tired sigh, instructed him in the subtle art of the legendary alpha mating dance. 

Yuuri never would have expected alphas to dance the way Minako showed him to dance, but he trusted her. She would know best, after all; it wasn’t like Yuuri was going to go and ask Yuuko about it. He _definitely_ wasn’t going to call up his hockey pack. 

In the week that passed, Yuuko’s triplets apparently got a hold of the announcers for the single local radio station. Yuuri didn’t even think the girls knew about such old technology, but nonetheless, the terror trio got them to broadcast an invitation to what they called “Yuuri vs. Yuri: Onsen on Ice!” What was supposed to be a private presentation of their interpretation of the programs to Viktor became very public; an overwhelming number of people packed into Ice Castle, throwing money at overpriced tickets at the door and crowding into the stands and floor space, packed right up against the boards. Hasetsu residents were accompanied by out-of-towners, reportedly from all over Kyushu, as well as a news station from Fukuoka. 

Yuuri, in a fitted maroon t-shirt and his black costume pants from the previous season, which were a little tight around his thighs, felt horribly under-dressed. He’d tried to dress somewhat appropriately for his theme, but the event was a surprise to him, being that he avoided social media before a— well, before anything, unless he was feeling particularly self-destructive. 

Not so to Yuri, who had expected the turnout. He improvised a costume out of a white dress shirt, bright yellow pants, a ridiculous ascot, and a multitude of silver crosses. He smiled smugly at Yuuri, as if to say, _I’ve won and we’re not even on the ice yet._

Which was ridiculous. This wasn’t a competition. 

…Not _yet_. But Yuri was his competition, would be in the Grand Prix series. He was a century-seasoned powerhouse of a skater. And suddenly Yuuri was terrified. How could he, in all his plainness, measure up?

Ah. There was the anxiety. _Hello, old friend. I haven’t missed you._

Yuri skated first, and Yuuri couldn’t watch; he hid himself deeper in the shadows than Viktor, and it wasn’t like Yuuri needed to avoid recognition as a long-dead legend. Viktor kept out of view of the cameras; Yuuri was trying to hide from heaven itself while he panicked. 

The glimpses Yuuri caught of Yuri’s skating terrified him. Yuri had clearly mastered _Agapé_ , and Yuuri had no idea how he’d done it, what depth of emotion Yuri tapped into to pull out such a performance. He missed the second half completely after he leaned against the nearest wall and slid down it until his was crouched in a ball on the floor. What he wouldn’t give to be in his bed right now, surrounded on all sides by the haphazardly piled laundry that made up his ever-changing nest, instead of _here_ , where it was loud and bright and overwhelming. 

Applause thundered through the air and chattered in Yuuri’s teeth. He trembled, wrapping his arms around himself, tucking his head down. He knew he was burrowing, and it wasn’t helping as much as it should. He was only making himself more anxious, his thoughts spiralling into _what if I’m not good enough? I know I’m not good enough!_

A touch on Yuuri’s shoulder caused him to jolt; his head snapped up. Viktor crouched in front of him, his eyes showing his age with worry. “Yuuri?”

“I’m fine,” Yuuri lied. He pitched forward, grabbing onto Viktor’s coat, shoving his nose against Viktor’s neck. He indulged, just for a moment; the scent of a fellow omega was calming, and Viktor would know that. It wouldn’t cure everything, Yuuri knew, but it was _something_. And the fact that the solid body, the arms that came up to hold him just for that fleeting moment, belonged to Viktor Nikiforov — that was _something_ , too. 

Yuuri barely remembered skating. All he remembered was telling Viktor, before he went on the ice, “I want to win. I want to win gold medals with you, and eat katsudon together. So don’t take your eyes off me.” And Viktor answering, in a whisper, “I love katsudon.”

It didn’t make sense. But whatever it was supposed to mean, it must have worked, because Yuuri finished to cheers and without the dull aches of any major falls. 

When he stepped off the ice, Yuuri was greeted by a surly Yuri Plisetsky and a beaming Viktor The latter immediately launched into a scathing criticism of all of Yuuri’s mistakes. Yuuri pursed his lips and lifted a hand, placing it squarely over Viktor’s mouth. 

“Later,” Yuuri said. He hadn’t slept all night, and it was starting to catch up to him. “I’m tired.” And he left the rink behind, his thoughts trained only on getting back to his bed as soon as possible. 

\---

Yuuri slept through the rest of the evening, and woke near dawn. He figured he may as well get up; he felt well-rested, for once. Energized, even. His father, who had been up for about an hour already attending the early-morning needs of Yu-topia, did a double-take when he saw Yuuri breeze through the kitchen in search of breakfast to-go, having never seen him awake so early before. 

Armed with natto on veggie flatbread, a breakfast that Yuuri was certain no-one else in the world would tolerate as well as he did, Yuuri made his way to Ice Castle in a light jog. He waved to those who greeted him, going about their morning duties in the fog of the dawn, lifting off the seaside town slow and sluggish, just the way Yuuri usually rose from bed if a few hours earlier. 

He unlocked the front doors of Ice Castle with his own key, then locked them behind him. If he was going to be awake this early, long before skating was open to the public, he should take advantage of the privacy. Not to mention that Yuuko probably wouldn’t be happy to find an unlocked door when she came in at ten. 

The rink was just as foggy as the world outside, frigid ice curling white wisps into the air before the A/C turned on for the day. The lights were off, dawn just breaking through the wide windows at the far end, and backlit against them, Yuuri watched a lone figure’s silhouette dancing across the ice. 

Viktor. 

The peaceful imagery was broken by the music that burst through the rink’s speaker system. Intense, consuming, frantic; even more so than the _Eros_ arrangement, but with a similar melody that marked it as part of the _On Love_ suite. Blending a full orchestra with shredding guitars, the low end of an organ thrumming, crashing drum beats making Yuuri’s heart race. Cacophonous and barely loyal to its time signature. 

And Viktor moved like lightning in a windstorm, his skates scraping and crackling on the ice, his hair tangling about his face and shoulders. He didn’t stop, not for a moment; alternating between reaching outward, drawing inward, clutching at his chest, clawing at his hair, wrapping his arms around his waist. He bent down, his hands sliding down his thighs as his feet blurred in their quick, jerky steps. 

With no set-up and no finesse, Viktor leapt into a double jump, two-footed the landing, and fluidly let himself down to the ice in a sudden death drop. Sprawled out on the ice, Viktor slid forward, and then he picked himself up, still sliding, onto his knees and then his feet, spinning and kicking up a spray of ice chips. 

None of it made sense. The choreography was dizzying, ugly despite the grace with which Viktor performed. It pulled at Yuuri’s heartstrings as much as any other program of Viktor’s, but this time with fear more than any other emotion. 

As a depiction of love, it was completely out of Yuuri’s comprehension. What kind of love was like this? So demanding and yet so starved. So needy, obsessive, touching the very edge of sanity, and yet fiercely loyal, with no room for giving up. 

It was a love that could crash and burn under the weight of its own expectations -- or it could soar, could become a bond everlasting purely through the deliberate choice to _try_ , to put in the effort through time eternal to nurture this love above all else. 

Even if it was terrifying, this love was real, no less than any other. 

The music came to a sudden stop, as did Viktor, the ice crunching under his blades. He faced the windows, away from Yuuri; after holding the final pose, one hand fisted in his hair and the other reaching out in front of him, for several seconds he let his arms fall to his sides, nodded once, and swept into a lazy circle of the rink. 

Yuuri startled and backed out, leaving when he was certain Viktor couldn’t see him. Something about that dance struck Yuuri as private, something personal and hidden that Yuuri shouldn’t have seen. 

Despite that, Yuuri couldn’t get what he’d just seen out of his head. He’d never experienced such an obsessive love, willing to throw away everything to pursue it -- or had he? Had his skating career not been built on that very logic? 

No. This was more. This was a love that risked being driven to madness, for a small glimpse at magic. 

Yuuri thought about that omega Viktor told him about, who had gotten through a contract the ability of forcing a false love on others, and used it to enslave them the way she’d been enslaved, to her own eventual destruction. Was that the kind of love Viktor had skated?

No. This love, however frightening, was genuine. It could sour, but might not. It could be one-sided or self-destructive, but had just as much potential to be deep and caring, if rather possessive. There was nothing inherently wrong or unhealthy about it. It was risky and could cause pain if not handled with care. But it was also very strong and could withstand many trials. 

Yuuri didn’t know how to feel about it. He supposed that was how he felt about Viktor’s contract too; there were risks and unknowns, and Yuuri knew he shouldn’t make a decision without all the information. He shouldn’t take the risk. 

But you know what Yuuri Katsuki does when he knows he shouldn’t take a risk?

“Yuuri.” 

Viktor came into the light of the lobby. He paused by the door to the hallway, staring. 

“Viktor.”

“You’re here early.” 

“Yeah… I couldn’t go back to sleep.” 

Yuuri stepped closer, and there must have been something in his face that betrayed his intentions, because Viktor’s whole demeanor changed, at once tense and excited. 

“I want to take on your contract.”

Viktor continued to stare. 

“I thought about it, and I want to do it. I trust you.” 

Viktor’s face broke into a grin. “Really?” 

Yuuri nodded once. 

“Well, then.” Viktor held out a hand. “Let’s kiss on it.”

“W-what?!” Yuuri stumbled backwards. No, no, back to thinking he’s dreaming --

“Your hand, Yuuri.” 

“Oh. Of course.” 

Of course Viktor wouldn’t actually want to kiss him. What was he thinking? 

Yuuri held out his right hand, and Viktor clasped it in his own. He sank to his knees in front of Yuuri, staring up at him all the while, his eyes glittering. 

Slowly, Viktor’s eyelids fluttered shut. He leaned forward until his hair obscured his face, and pressed a soft kiss to Yuuri’s knuckles, lingering. 

Yuuri felt his blood race, his veins ice over. It was comforting, somehow, as foreign as the feeling was, and as soon as it came, it was gone. 

“It’s done. Signed in blood.” Viktor’s head rose, his fingers still curled around Yuuri’s as their eyes met once more. “I look forward to working with you, Yuuri Katsuki.” 

**Author's Note:**

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